do you have any pets? of course, he said.
every modern family has pets,
they keep the kids entertained.
we used to
have a budgerigar,
but he got away...
luckily, the cockatiel can’t escape –
its wings have atrophied from
being kept in a cage.
it can fly about as far
as a chicken, maybe less
[he said with an awkward chuckle]
my sister named it Nancy, but then we found out
it was a boy.
our youngest cat has bulimia –
it gorges itself on cat food, every night
then vomits it back onto the carpet
every night – that’s why
we don’t let that cat inside very often.
none if it really interests me, he said –
i’d rather play with my war figurines
and read comic books.
i turn to face the
skyline,
pumpkin seeds clenched
in my fist.
a pigeon nuzzles into
itself, one
red eye rolling, a tiny
marble.
church spires prick like
pins;
tent poles, holding the
clouds aloft for centuries.
patti didn’t pick up
the guitar until she was twenty-three
nor robert the camera
and henry didn’t write
anything decent until his hair was already
swooping from the
temples.
i put down the pen and
sink back into the sun.
This poem was found written on a paper bag by Richard Brautigan in a laundromat in San Francisco. The author is unknown.
By accident, you put
Your money in my
Machine (34)
By accident, I put
My money in another machine (36)
On purpose, I put
Your clothes in the
Empty machine full
Of water and no
Clothes.
It was lonely.
Taken from The Pill Versus the Springhill Mine Disaster
This post is composed of many things; (another) grey day in Rome, an afternoon listening to SP's Adore on repeat and repeat, switching over to Enya, wearing pyjamas until midday, packing my bags for the overnight ferry to Corsica, dreaming of home.
Its skin stretched tight across
itself as though it were being torn at by cat claws; wrinkled and pitted date
and prune, and fur clinging to the follicles like the bristles of an old
doormat, sparse and balding. The solid body, a sculpture, stone or Styrofoam where
a soft bellygut ought to be. Teeth; little pegs on a battered washing line.
A series of black-and-white
photographs. One with mouth spread wide, unbelievably wide, an umbrella devouring
an ostrich egg. Another. Mustached man with a peaked felt hat, dusty overalls,
checkered flannie rolled loosely about the elbows. It is clear that he smelled
like pouch tobacco. He is crouching, propped up by a Winchester. There’s a happy
dog at his heel, tongue lapping and lagging. And there’s a body slung across
his lap like a worn-out lover, chin cupped in one knuckled hand. But it isn’t
limp like a woman. Its legs stick out, straight out, like pairs of wooden
canes. There’s a little hand reaching into the frame to hold up the striped tail.
Almost comical. I look back at the eyes, that aren’t eyes, but carefully shaped
marbles.
I hear a child start to wail. “S’alright
son,” says his father. “They aren’t dead. Their real bodies are over behind the
wall there. They’ve gotta do it that way to keep the foxes out, see.” A
snuffle.
“There, there. Shall we go for an
icecream?”
A knotted-together village wrapped like silk scarves around
a hill, burying itself into it, beavers in the dark, legs kicking. Little worm
holes wriggle from the sun. Smoke rises from beneath the village wall; the
gypsy camp, planted in the rubble. Fridge doors, wooden cupboards, the kind of stuff
that disappears when you chuck it over a ledge.
Olive trees spread out over the fields like ball bearings.
They look like one of those pins-and-needle masks that you get at quirky gift
stores, the ones you press your face into and the imprint sticks out the other
side, the tiny rods soft and cool against your face like curtain tassels. Like
curtain tassels, that you can tip upside down and make a doll out of, a blank
mannequin face with the swishy hair of a mermaid. Curtain-tassel hair like
submerging my head in the bath and feeling the curls collapse between my
fingers, rocking and swaying to some anonymous wave. Olive trees spread out over the fields like ball bearings.
Amanda Jas is an incredibly talented young photographer based in Brooklyn, NY.
First of all, who are you?
Hi! I'm Amanda. A Spaniard who moved to Ohio at a young age but as of four months ago calls New York home.
How would you describe your photographic process?
It's always evolving, I just recently started collaborating a bit more (which is a goal of mine for this new year!) and I am learning how to best work with others and how my style merges with others (or doesn't). My process began as something very simple and laid back, and I think that has translated well through the years and although photography has become more of a career i still find importance in keeping things low-tension and comfortable but productive. I have been trying to plan more before shooting, and that is a constant work in progress since part of me just wants to show up and see what happens. However much planning I might do from now until forever, I'd still like to keep some shoots purely spontaneous. Shooting film and shooting digital are different experiences for me, shooting film is a much slower and patient process since each frame costs you money and you can only try so many times...almost a more cherished process for me. If I had the money I would still shoot as much film as I used to when I was younger!
Why the move from Spain to NY?
Well, originally I moved from Spain to Ohio where I spent a majority of my childhood, and up until four or so months ago I moved from Ohio to New York! My family moved from Spain to Ohio because I assume my parents thought It'd be a nice place to raise a family and my father worked in the auto industry.
Your favourite photographers at the moment/ influences?
Just to name a few...Vivian Sassen, Jody Rogac, Jennilee Marigomen, Jimmy Marble, Andy Spade, Lina Scheynius, Jake Stangel, Stephanie Gonot, Matthew Tammaro....The list could go on, there are soo many brilliant brains out there making amazing art it's hard to remember names at times. I have a blog that houses things that i'm currently inspired/struck/motivated/etc by, it speaks as a good whole for the kinds of photographs(and other mediums) that entice my brain at the moment.
Where can we find more of your work?
Aside from my website you can see more on my tumblr, www.amandajas.tumblr.com
and you can follow along in my pocket diary on instagram: @hokaytokay
Raspberry Marmalade is Silvia Conde. Here is her portfolio.
It’s hard to say when exactly the ‘zine’ emerged; from the chapbooks peddled in the streets of England in the nineteenth century, to the swapping of science fiction tales in the 1930s, to the Riot Grrrl epidemic of the 90s; zines can be found from the time that people had the ability to write, create and self-publish and everywhere that paper, pen and scissors are available. I’d like to show you that, as the title intimates, zines can change the world; it’s no small claim, I know, but I really believe it.
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First of all, power to independent publishers! Zines allow more and more people to have a legitimate say, and give total creative license to their inventors. Every zine that circulates, hand-to-hand, mailbox-to-mailbox, is chipping away at the monopoly of the major commercial publishers for whom maximum profit inevitably takes priority over quality content. The unfortunate reality is that capitalism and independent expression just don’t fit together that well. George Nicholson, an editor-in-chief at Dell Publishing (an American cornerstone of the pulp magazine since the early 20th century) writes that “…anything perceived as ‘difficult’ is avoided at all costs by the major publishers… every penny is being watched and the ‘dragons’ of censorship are stronger than ever in my memory”. The thoughts and writing of everybody should at least be accessible; whether they are actually read or not, is the choice of he or she who holds the zine in hand, flipping the covers. Censorship is a decision for individuals – not CEOS.
The creation and distribution of zines is far less factory-like than the infinite, removed nature of the reproduction of glossy books in the major printing presses. Usually, zines are covered in the fingerprints of their loving creators, who have pieced them together, slid them beneath the scanner, lifted each copy from the photocopier, arranged and hand-stapled them. Purchasing zines is like buying your eggs from the old man up the road rather than factory-farmed ones; sometimes they cost a little extra, but they’re ten times more ethical. And anyway, many people give away or swap their zines, for nothing (or next to it)! That’s because making zines is enjoyable; a fantastic creative outlet that combines thought, creativity and art. You feel proud when you finish a zine – I know I do, anyway.
Zines localise the publishing industry, often involving niche content with quite specific audiences. They bring together people with similar interests, but also help others to see things from your perspective. They’re a great way of meeting people – if you come across somebody you like, you hand them a copy of your zine and carefully watch their reaction. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to reduce it entirely to this, but I’m willing to suggest that a zine played a not-so-insignificant role in bringing my boyfriend and I together. After we first met, I posted him a copy of Ruby Tuesday, a zine comprised of my own poetry. In return, I received a hefty envelope of typewritten notes and drawings – it was on. Nearly two years later, and we’re still here! The moral of that story is, that self-publishing helps people fall in love.
Zines begin with tiny roots which can spark entire movements. For example, in the early 90s Kathleen Hanna got together with some girlfriends and created the zine Bikini Kill, containing the famous Riot Grrrl Manifesto. At the NY Art Book Fair in 2010, an exhibition of over 600 unique Riot Grrl zines was put together. What once was small spread like wildfire – and all independently! Not only did Riot Grrrl give rise to a number of influential zines (Jigsaw, Snarla, Manifixation to name a few), but great politically-oriented bands too (Le Tigre, Bikini Kill, Bratmobile); zines are an important part of the counterculture which, I believe, is integral to creating social change.
So, while zines can simply be the swapping of ideas between a group of friends, they can also bring people together from all over the world. Zines can be international stewards! Not only this, but zines can help save the postal service! Sure, the post has some issues it needs to work on (such as its environmentally friendliness), but the fact is that nothing beats receiving a fresh book or zine in the mail in hard copy. There’s no need for an argument here, you know what I’m talking about. It’s a feeling.
Are you convinced? Well, time to get out your gluesticks, people! Make a zine! Change the world!
If you enjoyed this, then please check out my SOYA page here. Comments and feedback much appreciated!
